The Class

away.”

“To Anthony Thatcher, Dean of Humanities: Christopher Jastrow ’69 is currently failing intermediate Latin. His attitude is insouciant bordering on the arrogant. Barring some unforeseen miracle, there is no possibility of his being kept in the course past midterm. Yours truly, et cetera.”

Ted dictated this in one cathartic burst, his head in his hands. When he glanced up he noticed that Leona looked uneasy.

“Yes, I know who he is. But this is the Ivy League, we’ve got standards to maintain.” And as she typed the envelope he added, as if to absolve her of complicity, “I’ll put it under the dean’s door myself.”

He had no classes the next day, and so took full advantage of the rich facilities of the Canterbury Library to further his research.

He emerged after spending nearly eight hours abstracting the entire Fondation Hardt volume on Euripides, his green bookbag heavy with valuable copies of European journals that he — and Sara — would devour over the weekend.

Something made him glance up the hill at Canterbury Hall. There was no light on in the department office. What the hell, he thought, I might as well pick up my mail.

In addition to the routine correspondence there was a hand-addressed letter from the Department of Athletics.

Dear Ted:

I’d be grateful if you could drop by as soon as possible. I’m usually in my office till at least 7:30

P.M.

Your friend,

Chet Bigelow

(Head Football Coach)

He had half-expected this. Glancing at his watch he saw there was still time to put this presumptuous bastard in his place tonight. He marched off toward the gym.

Chet Bigelow’s rugged features looked like they had been the model for the phalanx of trophies lined up on the desk that separated the two men.

“Well then, Professor,” he began, “I understand our boy Jastrow’s having difficulty with your Latin course. Perhaps you don’t realize the pressure our men are under during the season.”

“Frankly, Mr. Bigelow, that’s none of my concern. In fact, what puzzles me is why Jastrow’s taking Latin in the first place.”

“Why, Prof, you surely know the college rules as well as I. A guy’s gotta fill a foreign-language requirement to graduate. Right?”

“But why Latin? Why in the world did you have your precious quarterback take an ancient language that is probably twice as difficult as any modern one?”

“It’s not hard if you’ve got the right teacher,” Bigelow explained.

“What?”

“Most of your classics boys have been terrific to us over the years,” Chet reminisced. “I mean, Henry Dunster’s absolutely fantastic. And, of course, we’ve played ball with him, too.”

“Coach Bigelow, I’m afraid you’re losing me.”

“All right, Teddie, lemme put it another way. If you suddenly got a lot more students taking Latin, you’d have to hire a lot more teachers. Am I right?”

“I don’t like your insinuation,” Ted said with disgust.

“Just what do you imagine I’m insinuating, Prof.?”

“Naturally, I’m just a dimwit from Harvard. But it seems to me you’re suggesting that if the football team increases our enrollments by sending us warm bodies, we should be so grateful that we should let them sail through without doing any work.”

There was a pause. The coach stared silently at Ted. And then he smiled.

“You clearly know the game, Professor. Now I suggest you go out and play by the rules. For, from what I gather, you do not yet have tenure at this place. And just like we need a good season, you need a good season.”

Ted stood up.

“If you want a war, Coach,” he whispered, “you’re gonna get one. Tomorrow’s the midterm exam. And if Jastrow flunks, he’ll be out on his ass.”

“Have it your way, Teddie. Just remember you’re dealing with a man who’s undefeated in six seasons.”

*

At the exam next morning, Jastrow did not appear at all. As soon as it was over, Ted Lambros stormed over to Barnes Hall and requested an audience with the Dean of Humanities.

“Tony, I’m sorry to barge in on you like this.”

“That’s all right,” the dean replied. “In fact, you might say your visit has been heralded.”

“Coach Bigelow?”

He nodded. “Yes, Chet’s a bit overprotective of his boys. Anyway, sit down and tell me about it.”

Thatcher listened as Ted went on like a prosecuting attorney. A frown gradually appeared on his face. There was a moment of silence before he commented, “Look, Ted, I don’t think flunking Jastrow’s the most prudent way of handling this.”

“Do you see any alternative?”

The dean turned his chair ninety degrees and gazed out over Windsor Green. “Well,” he mused, “as John Milton so eloquently put it, ‘They also serve who only stand and wait.’ ” He then swiveled back and looked at Ted.

“Milton was blind when he wrote that. But I’m not.”

Dean Thatcher gave this response careful thought, then smiled benignly.

“Ted, I want to talk to you for a moment off the record. You know how highly I regard you. And I feel you’re at the start of an extremely promising academic career.”

“What could this possibly have to do with my professional future?”

The administrator replied, unblinking, “Everything.”

“Can you explain that, please?”

“Listen,” the dean replied patiently, “you don’t seem to understand. If Jastrow can’t play, my head’s right there on the block with yours.”

“Why? You’re a full professor. You’ve got tenure.”

“I’ve also got three kids and a mortgage. They could freeze my salary forever. You’ve got to realize that Canterbury alumni are a very powerful group. And they feel pretty strongly about this place.”

“And its football team,” Ted added sarcastically.

“Yes, dammit, and its football team!” the dean shot back with exasperation. “Can’t you fathom that every time we beat Yale or Dartmouth, our grads interpret it as a sign that we’re superior in other ways as well? And let me tell you, the Monday after one of those victories, checks pour in like manna from heaven. An undefeated season can literally mean millions of dollars. And I’m not going to sit by and let a sanctimonious punk like you mess up the system. I mean, you don’t seem particularly grateful to be here.”

“Why should I be grateful, dammit?” Ted retorted. “I’ve already published more than the rest of the department put together.”

The dean shook his head. “You amaze me. You still have no idea what it takes to get ahead in the academic world.”

“I’m a good teacher and I’ve written an important book. I should think that would suffice.”

Tony Thatcher grinned. “It didn’t suffice for Harvard, did it? I mean, they didn’t seem to want to make a professor out of a Cambridge townie. And, frankly, neither do some of our boys.”

Ted had been in street fights. He had been kicked and punched and bruised. But now he felt inwardly